Resident Evil: Umbrella Conspiracy
by Haley Trapp
Summary: The novelization of the first Resident Evil game. Written by S.D Perry. Book 1/10.
1. Prologue

Resident Evil: Umbrella Conspiracy

Disclaimer: I do not own Umbrella Conspiracy. It's owned and written by Stephanie Danielle Perry.

Author's Note: This is the first novel of the Resident Evil book series. I did not make this story up, I coped it from the novel Resident Evil: Umbrella Conspiracy. I had put this story on Fan fiction for those who have been dying to read the rest even novels but never got the chance. This is my first time reading them as well. I will be doing all of the novels, so I hope you enjoy. I'm not trying to take credit for anything, but they might not sell the novels in your town.

Prologue

_Latham Weekly, June 2, 1998_

**BIZZARE MURDERS COMMITTED IN RACCOON CITY**

The mutilated body of fourty-two-years-old Anna Mitaki was discovered late yesterday in an abandoned lot not far from her home in Raccoon City, making her the fourth victim of the supposed "Cannibal killers" to be found in or or near the Victory Lake district in the last month. Consistent with the coroner reports of the other recent victims, Mitaki's corpse showed evidence of having been partially eaten, the bite patterns apparently formed by human jaws.

Shortly after the discovery of Miss Mitaki by two joggers at approximately nine o'clock last night, Chief Irons made a brief statement insisting that the RPD is "working diligently to apprehend the perpetrators of such heinous crimes" and that he is currently consulting with city officials about more drastic protection measures for Raccoon citizens.

In addition to the murderous spree of the cannibal killers, three others have died from probable animal attacks in Raccoon Forest in the past several weeks, bringing the toll of mysterious deaths up to seven...

_Raccoon Times, June 22, 1998_

**HORROR IN RACCOON CITY MORE VICTIMS DEAD**

The bodies of a young couple were found dead early Sunday morning in Victory Park, making Deanne Rusch and Christopher Smith the eighth and ninth victims in the reign of violence that has terrorized the city since mid-May of this year.

Both victims, aged 19, were reported as missing by concerned parents late Saturday night and were discovered by police officers on the west bank of Victory Lake at approximately 2.A.M. Although no formal statement has been issued by the police department, witnesses to the discovery confirm that both youths suffered wounds similar to those found on prior victims. Whether or not the attackers were human or animal has yet to be announced.

According to friends of the young couple, the two had talked about tracking down the rumored "wild dogs" recently spotted in the heavily forested park and had planned to violate the city-wide curfew in order to see one of the alleged nocturnal creatures.

Mayor Harris has scheduled a press conference for this afternoon, and is expected to make an announcement regarding the current crisis, calling for a stricter enforce-ment of the curfew...

_City Side, July 21, 1998_

**"S.T.A.R.S." SPECIAL TACTICS AND RESCUE SQUAD SENT TO SAVE RACCOON CITY**

With the reported disappearance of the three hikers in Raccoon Forest earlier this week, city officials have finally called for a roadblock on rural Route 6 at the foothills of the Arklay Mountains. Police Chief Brian Irons announced yesterday that the S.T.A.R.S. will participate full-time in the search for the hikers and will also be working closely with the RPD until there is an end to the rash of murders and disappearances that are destroying our community Chief Irons, a former S.T.A.R.S. member himself, said today (in an exclusive interview) that it is "high time to employ the talents of these dedicated men and woman have toward the safety of this city. We've had nine brutal murders here in less than two months, and at least five disappearances now-and-all of these events have taken place in a close proximity to Raccoon Forest.

This leads us to believe that the perpetrators of these crimes may be hiding somewhere in the Victory Lake district, and the S.T.A.R.S. have just the kind of experience we need to find them. When asked why the S.T.A.R.S. hadn't been assigned to these cases until now, Chief Irons would only say that the S.T.A.R.S. have been assisting the RPD since the beginning and that they would be a "welcome addition" to the task force currently working on the murders full-time.

Founded in New York in 1967, the privately funded S.T.A.R.S organization was originally created as a measure against cult-affiliated terrorism by a group of retired military officials and ex-field operatives from both the CIA and FBL under the guidance of former NSDA (National Security and Defense Agency) director Marco Palmieri, the group quickly expanded its services to include everything from hostage negotiation and code breaking to riot control.

Working with local police agencies, each branch office of the S.T.A.R.S. is designed to work as a complete unit of itself. The S.T.A.R.S. set up its Raccoon City branch through the fund-raising efforts of several local businesses in 1972 and is currently led by Captain Albert Wesker, promoted to the position less than six months ago.


	2. One

Chapter One

Jill was already late for the briefing when she somehow managed to drop her keys into her cup of coffee on the way out the door. There was a muted ting as they hit the bottom, and as she paused in mid-stride, staring in disbelief at the steaming ceramic mug, the thick stack of files she carried under her other arm slid smoothly to the floor. Paper clips and sticky notes scattered across the tan carpeting.

_"Ahh, shit."_

She checked her watch as she turned back toward the kitchen, cup in hand. Wesker had called the meeting for 1900 sharp, which meant she had about nine minutes to make the ten-minute drive, find parking and get her butt into a chair. The first full disclosure meeting since the S.T.A.R.S. had gotten the case - hell, the first real meeting since she'd made the Raccoon transfer-and she was going to be late.

_Figures. Probably the first time in years I actually gives a rat's ass about being on time and I fall apart at the door..._

Muttering darkly she hurried to the sink, feeling tense and angry with herself for not getting ready earlier. It was the case, the goddamn case. She'd picked up her copies of the ME files right after breakfast and spent all day digging through the reports, searching for something that the cops had somehow missed and feeling more frustrated as the day slipped past and she'd failed to come up with anything new.

She dumped the mug and scooped up the warm, wet keys, wiping them against her jeans as she hurried back to the front door. She crouched down to gather the files-and stopped, staring down at the glossy color photo that had ended up on top. Oh, girls...

She picked it up slowly, knowing that she didn't have time and yet unable to look away from the tiny, blood-splattered faces. She felt the knots of tension that had been building all day intensify, and for a moment it was all she could do to breath as she stared at the crime scene photo. Becky and Priscilla McGee, ages nine and seven. She'd flipped past it earlier, telling herself that there was nothing there she needed to see...

_...But it isn't true, is it? You can keep pretending , or you can admit it-everything's different now, its been different since the day they died._

When she'd first moved to Raccoon, she'd been under a lot of stress, feeling uncertain about the transfer, not even sure if she wanted to stay with the S.T.A.R.S. She was good at the job, but have only taken it because of Dick; after the indictment, he'd started to pressure her to get into another line of work. It had taken awhile, but her father was persistent, telling her again and again that one Valentine in jail was one too many, even admitting that he was wrong to raise her the way he had. With her training and background, there weren't a whole lot of options - but the S.T.A.R.S., at least appreciated her skills and didn't care how she came by them.

The pay was decent, there was the element of risk she'd grown to enjoy... In retrospect, the career change had been suprisingly easy; it made Dick happy, and gave her the opportunity to see how the other half lived. Still, the move had been harder on her than she realize. For the first time since Dick had gone inside, she'd felt truly alone, and working for the law had started to seem like a joke - the daughter of Dick Valentine, working for truth, justice, and the American way. Her promotion to the Alphas, a nice little house in the suburbs - it was crazy, and she'd been giving serious thought to just blowing out of town, giving the whole thing up, and going back to what she'd been before...

...Until the two little girls who lived across the street had shown up on her doorstep and asked her with wide, tear-strained eyes if she was really a police-man. Their parents were at work, and they couldn't find their dog...

...Becky in her green school dress, little pris in her overalls-both of them sniffling and shy...

The pup had been wandering through a a garden only a few blocks away, no sweat and she'd made two new friends, as easy as that. The sisters had promptly adopted Jill, showing up after school to bring her scraggly bunches of flowers, playing in her yard on weekends singing her endless songs they've learn from movies and cartoons. It wasn't like the girls had miraculously changed her outlook or taken away her loneliness, but somehow her thoughts of leaving had been put on a back burner, left alone for awhile.

For the first time in her twenty years, she'd started to feel like a part of the community she lived and worked in, the change so subtle and gradule that she'd hardly noticed.

Six weeks ago, Becky and Pris had wandered away from a family picnic in Victory Park and became the first two victims of the psychopaths that had since terrorized the isolated city.

The photo trembled slightly in her hand, sparing her nothing. Becky lying on her back, staring blindly at the sky, a gaping, ragged hole in her belly. Pris was sprawled next to her, arms outstretched, chunks of flesh ripped savagely from the slender limbs. Both children had been eviscerated, dying of massive trauma before they'd bled out. If they'd screamed, no one had heard...

_Enough! They're gone, but you can finally do something about it!_

Jill fumbled the papers back into their folder, then stepped outside into the early evening, breathing deeply. The scent of freshly cut grass was heavy in the sun-warmed air. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked happily amidst the shouts of children. She hurried to the small, dented gray hatchback parked by the front walk, forcing herself not to look at the silent McGee house as she started the car and pulled away from the curb. Jill drove through the wide suburban streets of her neighborhood, window down, pushing the speed limit but careful to watch for kids and pets. There weren't many of either around. Since the trouble had started, more people were keeping their children and animal indoors, even during the day.

The little hatchback shuddered as she accelerated up the ramp to highway 202, the warm, dry air whipping her long back from her face. It felt good, like waking up from a bad dream. She sped through the sun-dappled evening, the shadows of trees growing long across the road.

Whether it was fate or just the luck of the draw, her life had been touched by what was happening in Raccoon City. She couldn't keep pretending that she was just some jaded ex-thief trying to stay out of jail, trying to toe the line to make her father happy, or that what the S.T.A.R.S. are about to do was just another job. It mattered. It mattered to her that those children were dead, and the killers were still free to kill again.

The victim files next to do fluttered lightly, the top of the folder caught by the wind; nine restless spirits, perhaps, Becky and Priscilla McGee's among them. She rested her right hand on the shelf, stilling the gentle movement and swore to herself that no matter what it took, she was going to find out who was responsible. Whatever she'd been before, whatever she would be in the future, she had changed ... and wouldn't be able to rest until these murderers of the innocent had been held accountable for their actions.

_"Yo, Chris!"_

Chris turned away from the soda machine and saw Forest Speyer striding down the empty hall toward him, a wide tan on his tanned, boyish face. Forest was actually a few years older than Chris, but looked like a rebellious teenager - longer hair, studded jean jacket, a tattoo of a skull smoking a cigarette on his left shoulder. He was also an excellent mechanic, and of the best shots Chris had ever seen in action.

_"Hey, Forest. What's up?"_

Chris scooped up a can of club soda from the machine's dispenser and glanced at his watch. He still had a couple of minutes before the meeting. He smiled tiredly at Forest stopped in front of him, blue eyes sparkling. Forest was carrying an arm full of equipment-vest, utility belt, and shoulder pack.

_"Wesker gave Marini the go-ahead to start the search. Bravo teams goin' in."_

Even excited, Forest's Alabama twang slowed his words to a stereotypical drawl. He dropped his stuff on one of the visitors' chairs, still grinning widely. Chris frowned.

_"When?"_

_"Now. Soon as I warm up the 'copter."_

Forest pulled the Kevlar vest over his T-shirt as he spoke.

_"While you Alphas sit taking notes, we're gonna go kick some cannibal ass!"_

Nothing if not confident, us S.T.A.R.S.

_"Yeah, well ..just your ass, okay? I still think there's more going on here than a couple of slobbering nut jobs hanging around in the woods."_

_"You know it."_

Forest pushed his hair back and grabbed his utility belt, obviously already focused on the mission. Chris thought about saying more, but decided against it. For all of his bravado, forest was a professional; he didn't need to be told to be careful.

_"You sure about that, Chris? You think Billy was careful enough?"_

Sighing inwardly. Chris slapped Forest's shoulder lightly and headed for ops through the doorway of the small upstairs waiting room and down the hall. He was surprised that Wesker was sending the teams in separately. Although it was standard for the less experienced S.T.A.R.S. to do the initial recon, this wasn't exactly a standard operation. The number of deaths they were dealing with alone was enough to call for a more aggressive offense. The fact that there were signs of organization to the murders should have brought it to A1 status, and Wesker was still treating it like some kind of training run.

_Nobody else sees it; they didn't know billy..._

Chris thought again about the late-night call he'd gotten last week from his childhood friend. He hadn't heard from Billy in awhile, but knew that he'd taken a research position with Umbrella, the pharmaceutical company that was the single biggest contributor to the economic prosperity of Raccoon City, Billy had never been the type to jump at shadows, ad the terrified desperation in his voice had jolted Chris awake, filling him with deep concern. Billy had babbled that his life was in danger, begged Chris to meet him at a diner at the edge of town and then never showed up. No one had heard from him since.

Chris had run it over and over again in his mind during the sleepless nights since Billy's disapearance, trying to convince himself that there was no connection to the attacks of Raccoon and yet was unable to shake his growing certainty that there was more going on than met the eye, and that Billy had known what it was. The cops had checked out Billy's apartment and found nothing to indicate foul play ... but Chris' instincts told him that his friend was dead, and that he'd been killed by somebody who wanted to keep him from talking.

_And I seem to be the only one. Irons doesn't give a shit, and the team thinks I'm just torn up over the loss of an old friend._

He pushed the thoughts aside as he turned the corner, his boot heels sending muted echoes the arched second floor corridor. He had to focus, to keep his mind on what he could do to find out why Billy had disappeared, he was exhausted, running on a minimum of sleep and an almost constant anxiety that had plagued him since Billy's call. Maybe he was losing his perspective, his objectivity dulled by recent events...

He forced himself not to think about anything at all as he neared the S.T.A.R.S. office, determined to be clear-headed for the meeting. The buzzing fluorescents above seemed like overkill in the blazing evening light that filled the tight hallway; the Raccoon police building was a classic, if unconventioncal, piece of architecture, lots of inlaid title and heavy wood, but it had too many windows designed to catch the sun. When he'd been a kid, the building had been the Raccoon City hall. With the population increase a decade back, it had been renovated as a library, and four years ago, turned into a police station. It seemed like there was always some kind of construction going on.

The door to the S.T.A.R.S. office stood open, the muted sounds of gruff male voices spilling out into the hall. Chris hesitated a moment, hearing Chief Iron's amoung them.

_"Just call me Brian."_

Irons was a self-centered and self-serving politician masquerading as a cop. It was no secret that he had his sweaty fingers in more than a few local pies. He'd even been implicated in the Cider district land-scam back in '94, and although nothing had been proved in court, anyone who knew him personally didn't harbor any doubt.

Chris shook his head, listening to Iron's greasy voice. Hard to believe he'd only led the Raccoon S.T.A.R.S., even as a paper-pusher. Maybe even harder to believe that he'd probably end up as mayor someday.

_Of course, it doesn't help much that he hates your guts, does it, Redfield?_

Yeah, well. Chris didn't like to kick ass, and Irons didn't know how to have any other kind of relationship. At least Irons wasn't a total incompetent, he'd had some military training. Chris pasted on a straight face and stepped into the small, cluttered office that served the S.T.A.R.S. filing cabinet and base of operations.

Barry and Joesph were over by the rookie desk, going through a box of papers and talking quietly. Brad Vickers, the Alpha pilot, was drinking coffee and staring at the main computer screen a few feet away, a sour expression on his mild features. Across the room Captain Wesker was leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head, smiling blankly at something Chief Irons was telling him. Iron's bulk was leaned against Wesker's desk, one pudgy hand at his carefully groomed mustache as he spoke.

_"So I said, 'You're gonna print what I tell you to print, Bertolucci, and you're gonna like it, or you'll never get another quote from this office!"_

_"Chris!"_

Wesker interrupted the Chief, sitting forward.

_"Good, you're here. Looks like we can stop wasting time."_

Irons scowled in his direction but Chris kept his poker face. Wesker didn't care much for Irons, either, and didn't bother trying to be any more polite in his dealings with the man. From the glint in his eye, it was obvious that he didn't care who knew. Chris walked into the office and stood by the desk he shared with Ken Sullivan, one of the Bravo team. Since the teams usually worked different shifts, they didn't need much room. He set the unopened can of soda on the battered desktop and looked at Wesker.

_"You're sending Bravo in?"_

The captain gazed back at him impassively, arms folded across his chest.

_"Standard procedure, Chris."_

Chris sat down, frowning.

_"Yeah, but with what we talked about last week, I thought."_

Iron's interrupted.

_"I gave the order, Redfield. I know you think there's some kind of cloak and dagger going on here, but 7 don't see any reason to deviate from policy."_

Sanctimonious prick...

Chris forced a smiled, knowing it would irritate Irons.

_"Of course, sir. No need to explain yourself on my behalf."_

Irons glared at him for a moment, his piggy little eyes snapping, then apparently decided to let it drop. He turned back to Wesker.

_"I'll expect a report when Bravo returns. Now if you'll exuse me, captain."_

Wesker nodded.

_"Chief."_

Irons stalked past Chris and out of the room. He'd been gone less than a minute before barry started in.

_"Think the Chief took a shit today? Maybe we all oughtta chip in for Christmas, get him some laxatives."_

Joseph and Brad laughed, but Chris couldn't bring himself to join in. Irons was a joke, but his mishandling of this investigation wasn't all that funny. The S.T.A.R.S. should've been called in the beginning instead of acting as RPD back up.

He looked back at Wesker, the man's perpetually composed expression hard to read. Wesker had taken over the Raccoon S.T.A.R.S. only a few months ago, transferred by the home office in New York, and Chris still didn't have any real insight into his character. The new captain seemed to be everything he required to be: smooth, professional, cool, but there was a kind of distance to him, a sense that he was often far removed from what was going on.

Wesker sighed and stood up.

_"Sorry, Chris. I know you wanted things to go different, but Irons didn't put a whole lot of stock into your ... misgivings."_

Chris nodded. Wesker could make recommendations, but Irons was the only one who could upgrade a mission's status.

_"Not your fault."_

Barry walked towards them, scuffing at his short, reddish beard with one giant fist. Barry was only six feet tall but built like a truck. His only passion outside his family and his weapons collection was weight lifting, and it showed.

_"Don't sweat it, Chris. Marini will call us in the second he smells trouble. Irons is jill pulling your chain."_

Chris nodded again, but he didn't like it. Hell, Enrico Marini and Forest Speyer were the only experienced soliders in Bravo. Ken Sullivan was a good scout and a brilliant chemist, but in spite of his S.T.A.R.S. training, he couldn't shoot the broad site of a barn. Richard Aiken was a top communications expert, but he also lacked field experience. Rounding out Bravo team was Rebecca Chambers, who'd only been with the S.T.A.R.S. for three weeks, supposed to be some kind of medical genius. Chris had met her a couple times and she seemed bright enough, but she was just a kid.

_Its not enough. Even with all of us, it may not be enough._

He cracked open his soda but didn't drink any, wondering instead what the S.T.A.R.S. were going up against, Billy's pleading, desperate words echoing through his mind yet again.

_"They're going to kill, Chris! They're going to kill everyone who knows! Meet me at Emmy's now, I'll tell you everything..._

Exhausted, Chris stared off into space, alone in the knowledge that the savage murders were only the tip of the proverbial iceberg.

Barry stood by Chris's desk for a minute, trying to think of something else to say, but Chris didn't look like he was in the mood for conversation. Barry shrugged inwardly and headed back to where Joseph was going through files. Chris was a good guy, but he took things too hard sometimes; he'd get over it as soon as it was their turn to step in.

Man, it was hot! Seemingly endless trickles of sweat rolled down his spine, gluing his T-shirt to his broad back. The air-conditioning was on the fritz as usual, and even with the door open, the S.T.A.R.S. office was uncomfortably warm.

_"Any luck?"_

Joseph looked up to him from the pile of papers, a rueful smirk on his lean face.

_"Are you kidding? It's like somebody hid the damn thing on purpose."_

Barry sighed and scooped up a handful of files.

_"Maybe Jill found it. She was still here when I left last night, going through the witness reports for about the hundredth time..."_

_"What are you two looking for, anyway?" _Brad asked.

Barry and Joseph both looked over at Brad, still staring at the computer console, headset on. He'd be monitoring Bravo's progress throughout their fly-by of the forested district, but for now he looked bored as hell.

Joseph answered him. _"Ah, Barry claims that there are floor plans in here somewhere on the old Spencer estate, some architectural digest that came out when the house was built!"_

He paused, then grinned at Brad. _"Except that I think that ol' Barry's gone senile on us. They say memory is the first thing to go."_

Barry scowled good-naturally. _"Ol' Barry could easily kick your ass into next week, little man."_

Joseph looked at him mock-seriously. _"Yeah, but would you remember it afterwards?"_

Barry chuckled, shaking his head. He was only thirty-eight, but had been with Raccoon S.T.A.R.S. for fifteen years, making him the senior member. He endured numerous old age jokes, mostly from Joseph.

Brad cocked an eyebrow. _"The Spencer place? Why would it be in a magazine?"_

_"Your kids ,gotta learn your history." _Barry said. _"It was designed by the one and only George Trevor, just before he disappeared. He was that hot-shit architect who did all those weird skyscrapers in D.C. - in fact, Trevor's disappearance may have been the reason that Spencer shut the mansion down. Rumor has it that Trevor went crazy during the construction and when it was finished, he got lost and wandered the halls until he starved to death."_

Brad scoffed, but suddenly looked uneasy. _"That's bullshit. I never heard anything like that."_

Joseph winked at Barry. _"No, It's true. Now his tortured ghost roams the estate each night, pale and emaciated, and I've heard tell that sometimes you can hear him, calling out , 'Brad Vickers... bring me Brad Vickers."_

Brad flushed slightly _"Yeah, ha ha. You're a real comedian, Frost."_

Barry shook his head, smiling, but wondered again how Brad had ever made it to Alpha. He was undoubtedly the best hacker working for S.T.A.R.S., and a decent enough pilot, but he wasn't so hot under pressure. Joseph had called "Chicken-heart Vickers" when he wasn't around, and while the S.T.A.R.S. generally stuck up for one another, nobody disagreed with Joseph's agreement.

_"So is that why Spencer shut it down?" _Brad addressed this to Barry, his cheeks still red.

Barry shrugged. _"I doubt it. It was suppose to be some kind of guest house for Umbrella's top execs. Trevor disappeared right about the time of completion, but Spencer was wacko, anyway. He decided to move Umbrella's headquarters to Europe, I forgot where exactly, and just boarded up the mansion. Probably a couple of million bucks, straight into the crapper."_

Joseph sneered. _"Right. Like Umbrella would suffer."_

True enough. Spencer may have been crazy, but he'd have enough money and business savvy to hire the right people. Umbrella was one of the biggest medical research and pharmaceutical companies on the planet. Even thirty years ago, the loss of a few million dollars probably hadn't hurt.

_"Anyway," _Joseph went on. _"the umbrella people told Irons that they'd send someone out to check the place over, and that it was secure, no break-ins."_

_"So why look for blueprints?" _Brad asked.

It was Chris who answered, startling Barry. He'd walked back to join them , his youthful face fixed with a sudden intensity that almost bordered on obsessive.

_"Because It's the only place that hasn't been checked over by the police, and It's practically in the middle of the crime scenes. And because you can't always trust what people say."_

Brad frowned. _"But if Umbrella sent somebody out.."_

Whatever Chris was about to say in response was cut short by Wesker's smooth voice, rising from the front of the room.

_"All right, people. Since it appears that Mrs. Valentine isn't planning on joining us, why don't we get this started?"_

Barry walked to his desk, worried about Chris for the first time since this whole thing had started. He'd recruited the younger man for the S.T.A.R.S. a few years back thanks to a chance encounter in a local gun shop. Chris had proved to be a asset to the team, bright and thoughtful as well as a top-notch marksman and able pilot.

But now...

Barry gazed fondly at the picture of Kathy and the girls that sat on his desk. Chris's obsession with the murders in Raccoon was understandable, particularly since his friend had disappeared. Nobody in town wanted to see another life lost. Barry had a family, and was determined as anyone else on the team to stop the killers. But Chris's relentless suspicion had gone a little overboard. What had he meant by that, _"You can't always trust what people say"? _Either that Umbrella was lying or Chief Irons was...

Ridiculous. Umbrella's branch chemical plant and administrative buildings on the outskirts of town supplied three-quarters of the jobs in Raccoon City; it would be counter-productive for them to lie. Besides, Umbrella's integrity was at least as solid as any other major corporation's-maybe some industrial espionage, but medical secret-swapping was a far cry from a murder.

And Chief Irons, through a fat, weaselly blowhard, wasn't the kind to get his hands dirtier than they'd get accepting illegal campaign funds; the guy wanted to be mayor, for chrissake.

Barry's gaze lingered on his picture of his family a moment longer before he turned his chair around to face Wesker's desk, and he suddenly realized that he wanted Chris to be wrong. Whatever was going on in Raccoon City, that kind of vicious brutality couldn't be planned.

And that meant...

Barry didn't know what that meant. He sighed, and waited for the meeting to begin.


	3. Two

Chapter Two

Jill was deeply relieved to hear the sound of Wesker's voice as she jogged toward the open door of the S.T.A.R.S. office. She'd seen one of their helicopters taking off as she'd arrived, and been positive that they'd left without her. The S.T.A.R.S. wear a very casual outfit in some respects. But there also wasn't any room for people who couldn't keep up-and she wanted very much to be in on this came from the very beginning.

_"The RPD has already established a perimeter search, spanning sectors one, four, seven, and nine. It's the central zones we're concerned with, and Bravo will set down here..."_

At least she wasn't too late; Wesker always ran meetings the same way-update speech, theory, then Q and A. Jill took a deep breath and stepped into the office. Wesker was pointing to a posted map at the front of the room, with dotted colored tags where the bodies have been found. He hardly faltered in his speech as she walked quickly to her desk, feeling suddenly like she was back in basic training being late for class.

Chris Redfield threw her a half-smile as she sat down, and she nodded back at him before focusing on Wesker. She didn't no any of the Raccoon team that well, but Chris had made a real effort to make her feel welcome since she'd arrived.

_"...after a fly-by of the other central areas. Once they report in, we'll have a better idea of where to focus our energies."_

_"But what about the Spencer place?" _Chris asked.

_"It's practically in the middle of the crime scenes. If we start there, we can conduct a more complete search."_

_"And if Bravo's information points to that area, real assured, we'll search there. For now, I don't see any reason to consider it a priority."_

Chris looked incredulous. _"But we only have Umbrella's word that the estate is secure..."_

Wesker leaned against his desk, his strong features expressionless. _"Chris, we all want to get to the bottom of this. But we have to work as a team, and the best approach here is to do a thorough search for those missing hikers before we start jumping to conclusions. Bravo will take a look-see and we'll conduct this by the book."_

Chris frowned, but said nothing more. Jill resisted the urge to roll her eyes at Wesker's little speech. He was doing the right thing, technically, but had left out the part about it being politic to do as Chief Irons wanted. Irons had made it clear time and again throughout the killing spree that he was in charge of the investigation and was calling the shots. It wouldn't have bothered her so much except that Wesker presented himself as an independant thinker, a man who didn't play politics. She had joined the S.T.A.R.S. because she couldn't stand the bullshit red-tape that dominated so much of law enforcement, and Wesker's obvious deferral to the chief was irritating.

_Well, and don't forget that you stood a good chance of ending up in prison if you hadn't changed your occupation..._

_"Jill, I see that you managed to find the time to come in. Illuminate us with your brilliant insight. What have you got for us?"_

Jill met Wesker's sharp gaze evenly, trying to seem as cool and composed as he was. _'Nothing new, I'm afraid. The only obvious pattern is location..."_

She looked down at the notes she had on the stack of files in front of her, scanning them for reference.

_"Uh, the tissue samples from underneath both Becky McGee's and Chris Smith's fingernails were an exact match, we got that yesterday ... and Tonya Lipton, the third victim, had definitely been hiking in the foothills, that'd be sector-seven-B..."_

She looked back up at Wesker and made her pitch.

_"My theory at this point is that there's a possible ritualistic cult hiding in the mountains, four to eleven members strong, with guard dogs trained to attack intruders in their territory."_

_"Extrapolate." _Wesker folded his arms, waiting. At least no one had laughed. Jill plunged forward, warming to material. _"The cannibalism and dismemberment suggest ritualistic behavior, as does the presence of decomposed flesh found on some of the victims - like the killers are carrying parts of previous unknown victims to their attacks. We've got saliva and tissue samples from four separate human assailants, though eye-witness reports suggest up to ten or eleven people. And those killed by animals were all found or found to be attacked in the same vicinity, suggesting that they wandered into some kind of off-limits area. The saliva traces appear to be canine, though there's still some disagreement..."_

She trailed off, finished.

Wesker's face betrayed nothing, but he nodded slowly. _"Not bad, not bad at all. Disapprove?"_

Jill sighed. She hated having to shoot her own theory down, but that was part of the job-and in all honesty, the part that most encouraged clear, rational thinking. The S.T.A.R.S. trained their people not to fixate on any single path to the truth.

She glanced at her notes again. _"It's highly unlikely that a cult that big would move around much, and the murders started too recently to be local; the RPD would've seen signs before now, some escalation to this kind of behavior. Also, the level of post-Morten violence indicates disorganized offenders, and they usally work solo."_

Wesker scooped up a pen and walked to the dry-erase board next to his desk, talking as he moved. _"I agree."_

He wrote territoriality on the board and then turned back to face her. _"Anything else?"_

Jill shook her head, but felt good that she'd contributed something. She knew the cult aspect was reaching, but it had been all she could come up with. The police certainly hadn't come up with anything better. Wesker turned his attention to Brad Vickers, who suggested that it was a new strain of terrorism, and that demands would be made soon. Wesker put terrorism on the board, but didn't seem enthusiastic about the idea. Neither did anyone else. Brad quickly went back to his headset, checking on Bravo team's status. Both Joseph and Barry passed on theorizing, and Chris's views on the killings were already well known, if vague; he believed that there was an organized assault going on, and that external influences were involved somehow. Wesker asked if he had anything new to add (stressing new, Jill noticed), and Chris shook his head, looking depressed.

Wesker capped the black pen and sat on the edge of his desk, gazing thoughtfully at the blank expanse of board. _"It's a start," _He said. _"I know you've all read the police and coroner reports, and listened to the eyewitness accounts."_

_"Vickers here, over."_From the back of the room, Brad spoke quietly into his headset, interrupting Wesker. The captain lowered his voice and continued. _"Now at this point, we don't know what we're dealing with and I know that all of us have some .. concerns with how the RPD had been dealing with the situation. But now that we're on the case, I..."_

_"What?"_

At the sound of Brad's raised voice, Jill turned toward the back of the room along with everyone else. He was standing up, agitated, one hand pressed to the ear piece of his set.

_"Bravo team, report. Repeat, Bravo team, report!"_

Wesker stood up. _"Vickers, put it on 'com!"_

Brad hit the switch on his console and the bright, crackling sound of static filled the room. Jill strained to hear a human voice amidst the fuzz, but for several tense seconds, there was nothing.

Then. _"...you copy? Malfunction, we're going to have to..."_

The rest was loud in a burst of static. It sounded like Enrico Marini, the Bravo team leader. Jill chewed at her lower lip and exchanged a worried glance with Chris. Enrico had seemed ... frantic. They all listened for another moment but there was nothing more than the sound of open air.

_"Position?" _Wesker snapped.

Brad's face was pale. _"They're in the, uh, sector twenty-two, tail end of C ... except I've lost the signal. The transmitter is off-line."_

Jill felt stunned, saw the feeling reflected in the faces of others. The helicopters transmitter was designed to keep working no matter what; the only way it would shut down was if something big happened - the entire system blanking out or being seriously damaged.

Something like a crash.

Chris felt his stomach knot as he recognized the coordinates.

The Spencer estate.

Marini had said something about a malfunction, it had to be a coincidence - but it didn't feel like one. The Bravo's were in trouble, and practically on top of the old Umbrella mansion.

All of this went through his head in a split-second, and then he was standing, ready to move. Whatever happened, the S.T.A.R.S. took care of their own. Wesker was already in action. He addressed the team even as he reached for his keys, heading for the gun safe.

_"Joseph, take over the board and keep trying to raise them. Vickers, warm up the 'copter and get clearance, I was us ready to fly in five."_

The captain unlocked the safe as Brad handed the headset to Joseph and hurried out of the room. The reinforced metal door swung open, revealing an arsenal of rifles and handguns shelved above boxes of ammo. Wesker turned to the rest of them, his expression as bland as ever but his voice brisk with authority.

_"Barry, Chris I want you to get the weapons into the 'copter, loaded and secured. Jill, get the vets and packs and meet us on the roof." _He clipped a key off his ring and tossed it to her.

_"I'm going to put a call in to Irons, make sure he gets us some backup and EMTs down at the barricade," _Wesker said, then blew out sharply. _"Five minutes or less, folks. Let's move."_

Jill left for the locker room and Barry grabbed one of the empty duffel bags from the bottom of the gun safe, nodding at Chris. Chris scooped up a second bag and started loading boxes of shells, cartridges, and clips as Barry carefully handled the weapons, checking each one. Behind them, Joseph again tried hailing the Bravo team to no avail.

Chris wondered again about the proximity of the Spencer estate. Was there a connection? And if so, how? Billy worked for Umbrella, they own the estate-

_"Chief? Wesker. We just lost contact with Bravo; I'm taking us in."_

Chris felt a sudden rush of adrenaline and worked faster, aware that every second counted - could mean the difference between life and death for his friends and teammates. A serious crash unlikely , the Bravo's would have been flying low and Forest was a decent pilot ... but what about after they'd gone down?

Wesker quickly relayed the information to Irons over the phone and then hung up, walking back to join them.

_"I'm going up to make sure our 'copter's outfitted. Joseph, give it another minute and then turn it over to the boys at the front desk. You can help these two carry the equipment up. I'll see you on top."_

Wesker nodded to them and hurried out, his footsteps clattering loudly down the hall.

_"He's good," _Barry said quietly, and Chris had to agree. It was reassuring to see that their new captain didn't rattle easily. Chris still wasn't sure how he felt about the man personally, but his respect for Wesker's ability were growing by the minute.

_"Come in, Bravo, do you copy? Repeat..."_

Joseph paitently went on, his voice tight with strain, his pleas lost to the haze of white static that pulsed out into the room.

Wesker strode down the deserted hall and through the shabbier of the two second-floor waiting rooms, nodding briskly at a pair of uniforms that that stood talking by the soda machine.

The door to the outside landing was chocked open, a faint, humid breeze cutting through the stickiness of the air inside. It was still daylight, but not for much longer. He hoped that wouldn't complicate matters, although he figured it probably would...

Wesker took a left and started down the winding corridor that led to the helipad, absently running through a mental checklist.

_...hailing open procedure, weapons, gear, report..._

He already knew that everything was in order, but went through it again anyways; it didn't pay to get sloppy, and assumptions were the first step down that path. He liked to think of himself as a man of precision, one who had taken all possibilities into account and decided on the best course of action after thoroughly weighting all factors. Control was what being a competent leader was all about.

_But to close this case..._

He shut the thought down before it could get any further. He knew what had to be done, and there was still plenty of time. All he needed to concentrate on now was getting the Bravo's back, safe and sound.

Wesker opened the door at the end of the hall and stepped out into the bright evening, the rising hum of the 'copters engine and the smell of machine oil filling his senses. The small rooftop helipad was cooler than inside, partly draped by the shadow of an aging water tower, and empty except for the gunmetal gray Alpha helicopter. For the first time, he wondered what had gone wrong for Bravo; he'd had Joseph and the rookie check both birds out yesterday and they'd been fine, all systems go.

He dismissed that train of thought as he walked toward the 'copter, his shadow following him across the concrete. It didn't matter why, not anymore. What mattered was what came next. Except the unexpected, that was the S.T.A.R.S. motto, although that basically meant to prepare for anything.

Expect nothing, that was Albert Wesker's motto. A little less catchy, maybe, but infinitely more useful. It virtually guaranteed that nothing would ever surprise him.

He stepped up to the open pilot door and got a shaky thumbs-up from Vickers; the man looked positively green, and Wesker briefly considered leaving him behind. Chris was licensed to fly, and Vickers had a reputation for choking under the gun; the last thing he needed was for one of his people to freeze up if there was trouble. Then he thought about the lost Bravos and decided against it. This was a rescue mission. The worst Vickers could do would be to throw up on himself if the 'copter had crashed badly, and Wesker could live with that.

He opened the side door and crouched his way into the cabin, doing a quick inventory of the equipment that lined the walls. Emergency flares, ration kits ... he popped the lid on the heavy, dented footlocker behind the benches and looked through the basic medical supplies, nodding to himself. They were as ready as they were going to be...

Wesker grinned suddenly, wondering what Brian Irons was doing right now.

Shitting his pants, no doubt. Wesker chuckled as he stepped back out onto the sun-baked asphalt, getting a sudden clear mental image of Irons, his pudgy cheeks red with anger and crap dribbling down his leg. Irons liked to think he could control everything and everyone around him and lost his temper when he couldn't, and that made him an idiot.

Unfortunately for all of them, he was an idiot with a little bit of power. Wesker had checked him out carefully before taking position in Raccoon City, and knew a few things about the chief that didn't paint him in a particularly positive light. He had no intention of using that information, but if Irons attempted to screw things up one more time, Wesker had no qualms about letting that information get out...

...or at least telling him that I have access to it; it'd certainly keep him out of the way.

Barry Burton stepped out onto the concrete carrying more ammo cache, his giant biceps flexing as he shifted his hold on the heavy canvas bag and started for the 'copter. Chris and Joesph followed, Chris with the sidearms and Joseph lugging a satchel of RPGs, the compact grenade launcher slung over one shoulder.

Wesker marveled at Burton's brute strength as the Alpha climbed in and casually set the bag down as though it didn't weight over a hundred pounds. Barry was bright enough, but in the S.T.A.R.S., muscle was a definite asset. Everyone else in his squad was in good shape, but compared to Barry, they were pencil-necks.

As the three of them stored the equipment, Wesker turned his attention back to the door, watching for Jill. He checked his watch and frowned. It had been just under five minutes since their last contact with Bravo, they'd made excellent time ... so where the hell was Valentine? He hadn't interacted with her much since she'd come to Raccoon, but her files was a rave review. She'd gotten high recommendations from everyone she'd worked with, praised by her last captain as highly intelligent and "unusually" calm in a crisis. She'd have to be, with her history. Her father was Dick Valentine, the best thief in the business a couple decades back. He'd trained her to follow in his footsteps, and word had it that she done quite well until Daddy had been incarcerated...

Prodigy or no, she could stand to buy a decent watch. He slightly urged Jill to get her ass into gear and motioned for Vickers to start the blades turning. It was time to find out how bad things were out there.


	4. Three

Chapter Three

Jill turned towards the door of the dim and silent S.T.A.R.S. locker room, her arms full with two bulging duffel bags. She set them down and quickly pulled her hair back, tucking it into a well-worn black beret. It was really too hot, but it was her lucky hat. She glanced at her watch before hefting the bags, pleased to note that it had only taken her three minutes to load up.

She'd gone through all the Alpha lockers, grabbing utility belts, fingerless gloves, Kevlar vests and shoulder packs, noting that the locker reflected their user's personalities: Barry's had been covered with snapshots of his family and a pin-up from a gun magazine, a rare .45 Luger, shining against red velvet. Chris had pictures of his Air Force buddies up and the shelves were a boyish mess-crumpled T-shirts, loose papers, even a glow-in-the-dark-yo-yo with a broken string. Brad Vickers had a stack of self-help books and Joseph, a three stooges calendar. Only Wesker's had been devoid of personal effects. Somehow, it didn't surprise her. The captain struck her as too tightly wound to place much value on sentiment.

Her own locker held a number of used paperback true crime novels, a toothbrush, floss, breath mints, and three hats. On the door was a small mirror and an old, frayed photo of her father, taken when she was a child and they'd gone to the beach one summer. As she'd quickly thrown the Alpha gear together, she decided that she'd redecorate when she had free time; anyone looking through her locker would think she was some kind of dental freak. Jill crouched a bit and fumbled at the latch to the door, balancing the awkward bags on one raised knee. She'd just grasped it when someone coughed loudly behind her.

Startled, Jill dropped the bags and spun, looking for the cougher as her mind reflexively assessed the situation. The door had been locked. The small room held three banks of lockers and had been quiet and dark when she'd come in. There was another door in the back of the room, but no one had come through it since she'd entered.

_Which means that someone was already here when I came in, in the shadows behind the last bank. A cop grabbing a nap?_

Unlikely. The department's lunch room had a couple of bunks in the back, a lot more comfortable than a narrow bench of cold concrete.

Then maybe it's someone enjoying a little "leisure" time with a magazine, her brain snarled, does it matter? You're on the clock here, get moving!

Right. Jill scooped up the bags and turned to leave.

_Mrs Valentine, isn't it?"_

A shadow seperated itself from the back of the room and stepped forward, a tall man with a low, musical voice. Early forties, a thin frame, dark hair and deep set eyes. He was actually wearing a trench coat, and an expensive one at that.

Jill readied herself to move quickly if the need arose. She didn't recognize him.

_"That's right," _she said warily.

The man stepped toward her, a smile flickering across his face. _"I have something for you," _he said softly.

Jill narrowed her eyes and shifted automatically into a defensive position, balancing her weight on the balls of her feet.

_"Hold it, asshole - I don't know who the hell you think you are or what you think I want, but you're in a police station..."_

She trailed off as he shook his head, grinning broadly, his dark eyes twinkling with mirth.

_"You mistake my intentions, Miss Valentine. Excuse my manners, please. My name is Trent, and I'm ... a friend to the S.T.A.R.S.."_

His studied his posture and position and eased her own stance slightly, watching his eyes for even a flicker of movement. She didn't feel threatened by him, exactly...

...but how did he know my name?

_"What do you want?"_

Trent grinned wider. _"Ah, straight to the point. But of course, you're on a rather tight schedule..."_

He slowly reached into a pocket of his coat and pulled out what looked like a cell phone.

_"Thought it's not what I want that's important. It's what I think you should have."_

Jill glanced quickly at the item he held, frowning. _"That?"_

_"Yes, I've assembled a few documents that you should find interesting; compelling, in fact." _As he spoke, he held out the device.

She reached for it carefully, realizing as she did that it was a mini-disk reader, a very complicated and costly micro computer. Trent was well-financed, who ever he was.

Jill tucked the reader into her hip pack, suddenly more than a little curious.

_"Who do you work for?"_

_"That's not important, not at this juncture. Although I will say that there are a lot of very important people watching Raccoon City right now."_

_"Oh? And are these people 'friends' of the S.T.A.R.S., too, Mr. Trent?"_

Trent laughed, a soft, deep chuckle. _"So many questions, so little time. Read the files. And if I were you, I wouldn't mention this conversation to anyone; it could have rather serious consequences."_

He walked toward the door in the back of the room, turning back to her as he reached for the knob. Trent's lined, weathered features suddenly lost all trace of humor, his gaze serious and intense.

_"One more thing, Mrs Valentine, and this is critical, make no mistake: not everyone can be trusted, and not everyone is who they appear to be - even the people you think you know. If you want to stay alive, you'll do well to remember it._

Trent opened the door and just like that, he was gone.

Jill stared at him, her mind going a million directions at once. She felt like she was in some melodramatic old spy movie and had just met the mysterious stranger. It was laughable, and yet-

_and yet he just handed you several thousands of dollars worth of equipment with a straight face and told you to watch your back; you think he's kidding?_

She didn't know what to think, and she didn't have time to think it; the Alpha team was probably assembled, waiting, and wondering where the hell she was. Jill shouldered the heavy bags and hurried out the door.

They'd gotten the weapons loaded and secured and Wesker was getting inpatient. Although his eyes were hidden by dark aviator sunglasses. Chris could see it in the captain's stance and in the way he kept his head cocked toward the building. The helicopter was prepped and ready, the blades whipping warm, humid air through the tight compartment. With the door open, the sound of the engine drowned attempt at conversation. There was nothing to do but wait.

_Come on, Jill, don't slow us up here..._

Even as Chris thought it, Jill emerged from the building and jogged toward them with the Alpha gear, and apologetic look on her face. Wesker jumped down to help her, taking one of the stuffed as she climbed aboard.

Wesker followed, closing the double hatches behind them. Instantly, the roar of the turbine engine was muted to a dull thrum.

_"Problems, Jill?" _Wesker didn't sound angry, but there was an edge to his voice that suggested he wasn't all that happy, either.

Jill shook her head. _"One of the lockers was stuck. I had a hell of a time getting the key to work."_

The captain stared at her for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to give her a hard time, then shrugged. _"I'll call maintenance when we get back. Go ahead and distribute the gear."_

He picked up a headset and put it on, moving up to sit next to Brad as Jill started passing out the vests.

The helicopter lifted slowly, the RPD building falling away as Brad positioned them to head northwest. Chris crouched down next to Jill after dooning his vest, helping her sort through the gloves and belts as they sped over the city toward the Arklay Mountains.

The busy urban streets below quickly gave way to the suburbs of browning grass and picket fences. An evening haze had settled over the sprawling but isolated community, fussing the edges of the picturesque view and giving it an unreal, dream-like quality. Minutes passed in silence as the Alphas prepared themselves and belted in, each team member preoccupied with his or her own thoughts.

_With any luck, the Bravo team's helicopter had suffered only a minor mechanical failure. Forest would've set it down in one of the scraggly open fields that dotted the forest and was probably up to his elbows in grease by now, cursing at the engine as they waited for Alpha to show. Without the bird in working order, Marini wouldn't start the proposed search. The alternative..._

Chris grimaced, not wanting to consider any alternatives. He'd once seen the aftermaths of a serious 'copter crash, back in the Air Force. Pilot error had led to the fall of a Huey carrying eleven men and women to a training mission. By the time the rescuers had arrived, there'd been nothing but charred, smoking bones admist the fiery debris, the sweet, sticky smell of gasoline-roasted flesh heavy in the blackened air. Even the ground had been burning, and that was the image that haunted his dreams for months afterwards; the earth on fire, the chemical flames devouring the very soil beneath his feet...

There was a slight dip in their altitude as Brad adjusted the rotor pitch, jolting him out of the unpleasant memory. The ragged outskirts of Raccoon Forest slipped by below, the orange markers of the police blockade standing out against the thick muted green of the was finally setting in, the forest growing heavy with shadow.

_"ETA ... three minutes." _Brad called back, and Chris looked around the cabin, noting the silent, grim expressions of his teammates.

Joseph had tied a bandanna over his head and was intently relacing his boots. Barry was gently rubbing a soft cloth over his beloved Colt Python, staring out the hatch window. He turned his head to look at Jill and surprised to find her staring back at him thoughtfully. She was sitting on the same bench as him and she smiled briefly, almost nervously as he caught her gaze. Abruptly she unhooked her belt and moved to sit next to him. He caught a faint scent of her skin, a clean, soapy smell.

_"Chris .. what you've been saying, about external factors in these cases..."_

Her voice was pitched so low that he had to lean in to hear her over the throbbing engine. She glanced quickly around at the others, as if to make sure no one was listening, then looked into his eyes, her own carefully guarded.

_"I think you might be on the right track," _she said softly. _"and I'm starting to think that it might not be such a good idea to talk about it."_

Chris's throat suddenly felt dry. _"Did something happen?"_

Jill shook her head, her finely chiseled features giving nothing away. _"No. I've just been thinking that maybe you should watch what you say. Maybe not everyone listening is on the right side of this..."_

Chris frowned, not sure what she was trying to tell him. _"The only people I've talked to are on the job."_

Her gaze didn't falter, and he realized suddenly what she was implying.

_Jesus, and I thought I was paranoid!_

_"Jill, I know these people, and if I didn't, the S.T.A.R.S. have physco profiles on every member, history checks, personal references - there's no way it could happen."_

_s_

She sighed. _"Look, forget I said anything. I just ... just watch yourself, that's all."_

_"All right, kids, look lively! We're coming up on sector twenty-two, they could be anywhere."_

At Wesker's interruption, Jill gave him a final sharp glance and then moved to one of the windows. Chris followed, Joseph and Barry talking up the search on the other side of the cabin.

Looking out the small window, he scanned the deepening dusk on automatic, thinking about what Jill said. He supposed he should be grateful that he wasn't the only one who suspected some kind of a cover up, but why hadn't she said anything before? And to warn him against the S.T.A.R.S...

She knows something.

She must, it was the only explanation that made any sense. He decided that after they picked up Bravo, he'd talked to her again, try to convince her that going to Wesker would be their best bet. With both of them pushing, the captain would have to listen.

He stared out at the seemingly endless sea of trees as the helicopter skimmed over, forcing his full attention to the search. The Spencer estate had to be close, though he couldn't see it in the fading light.

Thoughts of Billy and Umbrella and now Jill's strange warning circled through his exhaustion, trying to break his focus, but he refused to give in. He was still worried about the Bravos - though as the trees swept by he was becoming more and more convinced that they weren't in any real trouble. It was probably nothing worse than a crossed wire, Forest had just shut it down to make repairs.

The he saw it less than a mile away, even as Jill pointed and spoke, and his concern turned to cold dread.

_"Look, Chris!"_

An oily plume of black smoke boiled up through the last remnants of daylight, staining the sky like a promise of death.

_Oh, no!_

Barry clenched his jaw, staring at the stream of smoke that rose up from the trees, feeling sick.

_"Captain, two o'clock sharp!" _Chris called, and then they were turning, heading for the dark smudge that could only mean a crash.

Wesker moved back into the cabin, still wearing his shades. He stepped to the window and spoke quietly, his voice subdued.

_"Let's not assume the worst. There's a possibility that a fire broke out after they landed, or that they started the fire on purpose, as a signal."_

Barry wished they could believe him, but even Wesker had to know better.

_With the 'copters shut down, a fire starting on its own was unlikely and if the Bravo's wanted to signal, they would've used flares._

Besides which, would dosen't make that kind of smoke...

_"But whatever it is, we won't know till we get there. Now if I could have your full attention, please."_

Barry turned away from the window, saw the others do the same. Chris, Jill, and Joseph all wore the same look, as he imagined he did: shock. S.T.A.R.S. sometimes got hurt in the line of duty, it was part of the job, but accidents like this...

Wesker's only visible sign of distress was the set of his mouth, a thin, grim line against his tanned skin.

_"Listen up. We've got people down in a possibly hostile environment. I want all of you armed, and I wanted an organized approach, a standard fan as soon as we set down. Barry, you'll take point."_

Barry nodded, pulling himself together. Wesker was right; now was not the time to get emotional.

_"Brad's going to set us down as close to the site as he can get, what looks like a small clearing about fifty meters south of our last coordinates. He'll stay with the 'copter and keep it warm in case of trouble. Any questions?"_

Nobody spoke, and Wesker nodded briskly.

_"Good. Barry, load us up. We can leave the rest of the gear on board and come back for it."_

The captain stepped to the front to talk to Brad, while Jill, Chris and Joseph turned to Barry. As weapons specialist, he checked the firearms in and out to each S.T.A.R.S. team member and kept them in prime condition.

Barry turned to the cabinet next to the outer latch and unhooked the latch, exposing six Beretta 9mm handguns on a metal rack, cleaned and sighted only yesterday. Each weapon held fifteen rounds, semi-jacketed hollow points. It was a good gun, though Barry preferred his python, a lot bigger punch with .357 rounds...

He quickly distributed the weapons, passing out three loaded clips with each.

_"I hope we don't need these," _Joseph said, slapping in a clip, and Barry nodded agreement. Just because he paid his dues to the the NRA didn't mean he was some trigger-happy dumb ass, looking to kill; he just liked guns.

Wesker joined them again and the five of them stood at the hatch, waiting for Brad to bring them in. As they neared the plume of smoke, the helicopters whirling blades pushed it down and out, creating a black fog that blended into the heavy shadows of the trees. Any chance of spotting the downed vehicle from the air was lost to the smoke and dusk. Brad swung them around and settled the bird into a scrappy patch of tall grass, snapping widely from the forced wind. Even as the rails wobbled to the ground, Barry had his hand on the latch, ready to move out. A warm hand fell on his shoulder. Barry turned and saw Chris looking at him intently.

_"We're right behind you," _Chris said, and Barry nodded. He wasn't worried, not with the Alphas backing him up. All he was concerned with was Bravo team's situation. Rico Marini was a good friend of his. Marini's wife had baby-sat for the girls more times than Barry could count, and was friends with Kathy. The thought of him dead, to a stupid mechanical screw-up...

Hang on, buddy, we're comin'.

One hand on the butt of his cult, Barry pulled the handle and stepped out into the humid, whipping twilight of Raccoon Forest, ready for anything.


	5. Four

Chapter Four

They spread out and started north, Wesker and Chris behind and to Barry's left, Jill and Joseph on his right. Directly in front of them was a sparse stand of trees, and as the Alpha's 'copter blade revved down, Jill could smell burning fuel and see wisps of smoke curling through the foliage. They moved quickly through the wooded area, visibility dropping off beneath the needled branches. The warm scents of pine and earth were overshadowed by the burning smell, the acrid odor growing stronger with each step. From the dim light filtering toward them, Jill saw that there was another clearing ahead, high with brittle grasses.

_"I see it, dead ahead!"_

Jill felt her heart beat up at Barry's shout, and then they were all running, hurrying to catch up to their point man.

She emerged from the corpse of trees, Joseph next to her. Barry was already at the drowned 'copter, Chris and Wesker right behind. Smoke was still rising from the silent wreck, but it was thinning. If there had been a fire, it had died out.

She and Joseph reached the others and stopped, staring, no one speaking as they surveyed the scene. The long, wide body of the 'copter was intact, not a single scratch visible. The port landing rail looked bent, but besides that and the dying haze of smoke from the rotor, there seemed to be nothing wrong with it. The hatches stood open, the beam from Wesker's penlight showing them an undamaged cabin. From what she could see, most of the Bravo's gear was still on board.

_So where are they?_

It didn't make any sense. _It hadn't been fifteen minutes since their last transmission; if anyone had been injured, they would have stayed. And if they'd decided to leave, why had they left their equipment behind?_

Wesker handed the light to Joseph and nodded toward the cockpit. _"Check it out. The rest of you, spread out, look for clues-tracks, shell casings, signs of struggle-you find anything, let me know. And stay alert."_

Jill stood a moment longer, staring at the smoking 'copter and wondering what could have happened. _Enrico had said something about a malfunction; so okay, the Bravos had set down. What had happened next? What would have made them abandon their best chance of being found, leaving behind emergency kits, weaponry _- Jill saw a couple of bullet-proof vests crumpled next to the hatch and shook her head, adding it to the growing list of seemingly irrational actions.

She turned to join the search as Joseph stepped out of the cockpit, looking as confused as she felt. She waited to hear his report as he handed the light back to Wesker, shrugging nervously. _"I don't know what happened. The bent railed suggests a force landing, but except for the electrical system, everything looks fine."_

Wesker sighed, then raised his voice so the others could hear. _"Circle out, people, three meters apart, widen as we go!"_

Jill moved over to stand between Chris and Barry, both men already scanning the ground at their feet as they slowly moved east and northeast of the helicopter. Wesker stepped into the cabin, probing the darkness with his penlight. Joseph headed west. Dry weeds crackled underfoot as they widened their circle, the only sound in the still, warm air except for the distant hum of the Alpha helicopter engine. Jill used her boots to search through the thick ground cover, brushing the tall grasses aside with each step. In another few moments, I'd be too dark to see anything; they needed to break out the flashlights, Bravo had left theirs behind...

Jill stopped suddenly, listening. The sighing, crackling steps of the others, the far away drone of their 'copter and nothing else. Not a chirp, a chitter, nothing. They were in the woods, in the middle of summer; where were the animals, the insects? The forest was unnaturally still, the only sounds human. For the first time since they'd set down, Jill was afraid. She was about to call out to the others when Joseph shouted from somewhere behind them, his voice high and cracking. _"Hey! Over here!"_

Jill turned and started jogging back, saw Chris and Barry do the same. Wesker was still by the helicopter and had drawn his weapon at Joseph's cry, pointing it up as he broke into a run.

In the murky light, Jill could just make out Joseph's shadowy form, crouched down in the high grass near some trees a hundred feet past the 'copter. Instinctively, she pulled her own sidearm and double-timed, suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of encroaching doom.

Joseph stood up, holding something, and let out a strangled scream before dropping it, his eyes wide with horror.

For a split-second, Jill's mind couldn't accept what it had seen in Joseph's grasp.

A S.T.A.R.S. handgun, a Beretta.

Jill ran faster, catching up to Wesker.

And a disembodied human hand curled around it, hacked off at the wrist.

There was a deep, guttural snarl from behind Joseph, from the darkness of the trees. An animal, growling joined by another rasping. Throaty shriek and suddenly dark, powerful shapes erupted from the woods, lunging at Joseph and taking him down.

_"Joseph!"_

Jill's scream ringing in his ears, Chris drew his weapon and stopped in his tracks, trying to get a clear shot at the raging beasts that were attacking Joseph. Wesker's penlight sent a thin beam dancing over the writhing creatures, eliminating a nightmare. Joseph's body was all but hidden by the three animals that tore at him, ripping at him with gnashing, dripping jaws. They were the size and shape of dogs, as big as German Shepherds maybe, except that they seemed to have no fur, no skin. Wet, red sinew and muscle flashed beneath Wesker's wavering light, the dog-creatures shrieking and snapping in a frenzy of blood lust.

Joseph cried out, a blurbing, liquid sound as he flailed weakly at the savage attackers, blood pouring from multiple wounds. It was the scream of a dying man. There was no time to waste; Chris targeted and opened fire.

Three rounds smacked wetly into one of the dogs, a fourth shot going high. There was a single, high pitched yelp and the beast went down., it's sides heaving. The other two animals continued their assault, indifferent to the thunderous shots. Even as Chris watched in horror, one of the slavering hell hounds lunged forward and ripped out Joseph's throat, exposing bloody gristle and the glistening slickness of bone.

The S.T.A.R.S. opened up, sending a rain of explosive fire at Joseph's killers. Red spatters burst into the air, the dog-things still trying to get at the spasming corpse while bullets riddled their strange flesh. With a final series harsh, barking mewls, they fell and didn't rise again.

_"Hold your fire!" _

Chris took his finger off the trigger but continued to point the handgun at the fallen creatures, ready to blow apart the first one that so much as twitched. Two of them were still breathing, growling softly through panting gasps. The third sprawled lifelessly next to Joseph's mutilated body.

_They should be dead, should've stayed down at the first shots! What are they?_

Wesker took a single step to the slaughter in front of them when all around, deep, echoing growls filled the warm night air, shrill voices of predatorial fury coming at the S.T.A.R.S. from all directions.

_"Back to the 'copter, now!" _Wesker shouted.

Chris ran, Barry and Jill in front of him and Wesker bringing up the rear. The four of them sprinted through dark trees, unseen branches slapping at them as the howls grew louder, more insistent.

Wesker turned and fired blindly into the woods as they stumbled toward the waiting helicopter, its blades already spinning. Chris felt relief sweep through him; _Brad must have heard the shots. They still had a chance..._

Chris could hear the creatures behind them now, the sharp rustling of lean, muscular bodies tearing through the trees. He could see Brad's pale, wide-eyes face through the glass front of the 'copter, the reflected lights of the control panel casting a greenish glow across his panicked features. He was shouting something, but the roar of the engine drowned out everything now, the blast of wind churning the field into a rippling sea.

Another fifty feet, almost there.

Suddenly, the helicopter jerked into the air, accelerating widely. Chris caught a final glimpse of Brad's face and could see the blind terror there, the unthinking panic that had gripped him as he clawed at the controls.

_"No! Don't go!" _Chris screamed, but the wobbling rails were already out of reach, the 'copter pitching forward and away from them through the thundering darkness.

They were going to die.

_Damn you, Vickers!_

Wesker turned and fired again, and was rewarded with a squeal of pain from one of their pursuers. There were at least four more close behind, gaining on them rapidly.

_"Keep going!" _he shouted, trying to get his bearings as they stumbled on the piercing shrieks of the mutant dogs urging them faster. The sound of the helicopter was dying away, the cowardly Vickers taking their escape with him.

Wesker fired again, the shot going wide, and saw another shadowy form join the hunt. The dogs were brutally fast. They didn't stand a chance, unless...

_The Mansion!_

_"Veer right, one o'clock!" _Wesker yelled, hoping that his sense of direction was still intact. They couldn't outrun the creatures, but maybe they could keep them at bay long enough to reach cover. He spun and fired the last round in his clip.

_"Empty!"_

Ejecting the spent magazine, he fumbled for another one tucked into his belt as both Barry and Chris took up the defense, firing past him and into the closing pack. Wesker slapped in the fresh clip as they reached the end of the overgrown clearing and plunged into another dark strand of trees. They stumbled and dodged through the woods, tripping on uneven ground as the killer dogs came on. Lungs aching for air, Wesker imagined that he could smell the fetid, rotting meat stench of the beasts as they narrowed the distance and he somehow found the capacity to run faster.

_We should be there by now, gotta be close..._

Chris saw it first through the thinning shadows of trees, the looming monstrosity back-lit by an early moon. _"There! Run for that house!"_

It looked abandoned from the outside, the weathered wood and stone of the giant mansion crumbling and dark. The full size of the structure was cloaked by the shadowy, overgrown hedges that surrounded it, isolating it from the forest. A massive outset front porch presented double doors, their only option for escape.

Wesker actually heard the snap of powerful jaws behind him and fired at the sound, intuitively squeezing the trigger as he ran for the front of the mansion. A gurgling yelp and the creature fell away, the howls of its siblings louder than ever, raised to a fever pitched by the thrill of the chase.

Jill reached the doors first, slamming into the heavy wood with one shoulder as she snatched at the handles. Amazingly, they crashed open; brightness spilled out across the stone steps to the porch, lighting their path. She turned and started firing, providing cover as the three grasping men ran for the opening in the darkness.

They piled into the mansion, Jill diving in last and Barry throwing his considerable bulk against the door, wedging it closed against the snarls of the creatures. He collapsed against it, face red and sweating, as Chris found the entry's steel deadbolt and slid it home.

They'd made it. Outside, the dogs howled and scrabbled uselessly at the heavy doors. Wesker took a deep breath of the cool, quiet air that filled the well-lit room and exhaled sharply. As he'd already known, the Spencer wasn't abandoned. And now that they were all here, all his careful planning was for nothing.

Wesker silently cursed Brad Vickers again and wondered if they were any better off inside than out...


	6. Five

Chapter Five

Jill took in their new surroundings as she caught her breath, feeling like she was a character in a nightmare that had just taken a turn into grand fantasy. Wild, howling monsters, Joseph's sudden death, a terrifying run through the dark woods-and now this.

_Deserted, huh?_

It was a palace, pure and simple, what her father would have called a perfect score. The room they had escaped into was the epitome of lavish. It was huge, easily bigger than Jill's entire house, tiled in gray flecked marble and dominated by a wide, carpeted that let to a second-floor balcony. Arched marble pillars lined the ornate hall, supporting the dark, heavy wood balustrade of the upper floor. Fluted wall scones cast funnels of light across walls of cream, trimmed in oak and offset by the deep burnt ocher of the carpeting. In short, it was magnificent.

_"What is this?" _Barry muttered. No one answered him.

Jill took a deep breath and decided immediately that she didn't like it. There was a sense of...wrongness to the vast room, and atmosphere of vague oppression. It felt haunted somehow, though by who or what, she couldn't say.

_Beats the hell getting eaten by mutant dogs, though, gotta give it that much. _And on the trail of that thought, _God, poor Joseph! There hadn't been time to mourn him, and there wasn't time now-but he would be missed._

She walked toward the stairs clutching her handgun, her footsteps muffled by the plush carpet that led from the front door. There was an antique typewriter on a small table to the right of their steps, a blank sheet of paper spooled into the works. A strange bit of decorum. The expansive hall was otherwise empty.

She turned back toward the others, wondering what their take on all this was. Barry and Chris both looked uncertain, their faces flushed and sweaty as they surveyed the room. Wesker was crouched by the front door, examining one of the latches.

He stood up, his dark shades still in place, seeming as detached as ever. _"The wood around the lock is splintered. Somebody broke this door before we got here."_

Chris looked hopeful. _"Maybe the Bravo's?"_

Wesker nodded. _"That's what I'm thinking. Help should be on the way, assuming our 'friend' Mr. Vickers bothers to call it in."_

His voice dripped sarcasm, and Jill felt her own anger kindling. Brad had screwed up big time, had almost cost them their lives. There was no excuse for what he'd done.

Wesker continued, walking across the room toward one of the two doors on the west wall. He rattled the handle, but it didn't open. _"It's not safe to go back out. Until the cavalry shows up, we might as well take a look around. It's obvious some body's been keeping this place up, though why and for how long..."_

He trailed off, walking back toward the group. _"How are we set for ammo?"_

Jill ejected the clip from her Beretta and counted: three rounds left, plus the two loaded magazines on her belt. Thirty-three shots. Chris had twenty-two left, Wesker, seventeen. Barry had two racked speed loaders for his Colt, plus an extra handful of loose cartridges tucked into a hip pouch, nineteen rounds in all.

Jill thought about all they'd left back on the helicopter and felt another rush of anger toward Brad. Boxes of ammunition, flashlights, walkie-talkies, Shotsguns - not to mention medical supplies. That Beretta that Joseph had found out in the field, the pale, blood-splattered fingers still wrapped around it - a S.T.A.R.S. team member dead or dying, and thanks to Brad, they didn't even have a band-aid to offer.

Thump!

A sound of something heavy sliding to the floor, somewhere close by. In unison, they turned toward the single door on the east wall. Jill was suddenly reminded of every horror movie she'd ever seen; a strange house, a strange noise ... she shivered, and decided that she was definitely going to kick Brad's narrow ass when they got out of here.

_"Chris, check it out and report back ASAP," _Wesker said. _"We'll wait here in case the RPD comes. You run into any trouble, fire your weapon and we'll find you."_

Chris nodded and started toward the door, his boots clacking loudly against the marble floor. Jill felt that sense of foreboding wash over her again. _"Chris?"_

His hand on the knob, he turned back, and she realized that there was nothing she could tell him that made any sense. Everything was happening so fast, there was so much wrong with the situation that she didn't know where to start.

_And he's a trained professional, and so are you. Start acting like it._

_"Take care," _she said finally. It wasn't what she wanted to say, but I'd have to be enough. Chris gave her a lopsided grin. then raised his Beretta and stepped through the doorway. Jill heard the ticking of a clock and then he was gone, closing the door behind him.

Barry caught her gaze and smiled at her, a look that told her not to worry, but Jill couldn't shake the sudden certainty that Chris wouldn't be coming back.

* * *

Chris swept the room, taking in the stately elegance of the environment as he realized he was alone; whoever had made the noise, they weren't here. The solemn ticking of the grandfather clock filled the cool air, echoing off of shining black and white tiles. He was in a dining hall, the kind he'd only ever seen in movies about rich people. Like the front room, this once had an incredibly high ceiling and a second floor balcony, but it was also decorated with expensive looking art and had an inset fireplace at the far end, complete with a coat of arms and crossed swords hung over the mantle. There didn't seem to be any way to get to the second floor, but there was a closed door to the right of the fireplace.

Chris lowered his weapon and started for the door, still awed by the wealth of the "abandoned" mansion that the S.T.A.R.S. had stumbled into. The dining room had polished red wood trim and expensive looking artwork on the beige stucco walls, surrounding a long wooden table that ran the length of the room. The table had to seat at least twenty, though it was only set for a handful of people. Judging from the dust on the lacy place mats, nothing had been served for weeks.

Chris shook his head. _Obviously someone had reopened it a long time ago... so how was it that everyone in Raccoon City believed the Spencer estate to be boarded up, a crumbling ruin out in the woods? More importantly, why had Umbrella lied to Irons about its condition._

Murders, disappearances, Umbrella, Jill. ... It was frustrating; he felt like he had some of the answers, but wasn't sure what questions to ask.

He reached the door and turned the knob slowly, listening for any sound of movement on the other side. He couldn't hear anything over the ticking of the old clock; it was set against the wall and each movement of the second hand reverberated hollowly, amplified by the cavernous room.

The door opened into one side of a narrow corridor, dimly lit by antique light fixtures. Chris quickly checked both directions. To the right was maybe ten meters of hardwood hall, a couple of doors across from him and a door at the end of the corridor. To the left, the hallway took a sharp turn away from where he stood, widening out. He saw the edge of the patterned brown on the run on the floor there.

He wrickled his nose, frowning. There was a vague odor in the air, a faint scent of something unpleasant, something familiar. He stood in the doorway another moment, trying to place the smell. One summer when he was a kid, the chain had come off his bike when he'd been out on a ride with some friends. He'd ended up in a ditch about six inches away from a choice bit of roadkill, the dried-up pulpy remains of what once might have been a woodchuck. Time and summer heat had dissipated the worst of the stink, though what had remained had been bad enough. Much to the amusement of his buddies, he'd vomited his lunch all over the carcass, taken a deep breath, then puked again. He still remembered the sun-baked scent of drying rot, like thickly soured milk and bile; the same smell that lingered in the corridor now like a bad dream.

Fummp.

A soft, shuffling noise from behind the first door to his right, like a padded fist sliding across a wall. There was someone on the other side.

Chris edges into the hallway and moved toward the door, careful not to turn his back to the unsecured area. As he got closer, the gentle sounds of movement stopped, and he could see that the door wasn't closed all the way.

No time like the present.

With an easy tap the door swung inward, into a dim hall with green flecked wallpaper. A broad-shouldered man was standing not twenty feet away, half-hidden in shadow, his back to Chris. He turned around slowly, the careful shuffling of someone drunk or injured, and the smell that Chris had noticed before came off of the man in thick, noxious waves. His clothes were tattered and stained, the back of his head patchy with sparse, scraggly hair.

Gotta be sick, dying maybe.

Whatever was wrong with him, Chris didn't like it; his instincts were screaming at him to do something. He stepped into the corridor and trained his Beretta on the man's torso. _"Hold it, don't move!"_

The man completed his turn and started toward Chris, shambling forward into the light. His, it's, face was deadly pale, except for the blood smeared around its rotting lips. Flaps of dried skin hung from its sunken cheeks, and the dark wells of the creature's eye sockets glittered with hunger as it reached out with skeletal hands.

Chris fired, three shots that smacked into the creature's upper chest in a fine spray of crimson. With a gasping moan, it crumpled to the floor, dead. Chris staggered back, his thoughts racing in time with his hammering heart. He hit the door with one shoulder, was vaguely aware that it latched closed behind him as he stared at the fallen, stinking heap.

-dead, that thing's the walking goddamn dead!

The cannibal attacks in Raccoon, all of them near the forest. He's seen enough late-night movies to know what he was looking at, but he still couldn't believe it.

Zombies.

No, no way, that was fiction, but maybe some kind of disease, mimicking the symptoms. He had to tell the others. He turned and grabbed at the handle, but the heavy door wouldn't move, it must have locked itself when he'd stumbled.

Behind him, a wet movement. Chris spun, eyes wide as the twitching creature clawed at the wooden floor, pulling itself toward him in an eager, single minded silence. Chris realized that it was drooling, and the sticky pink rivulets pooling to the wood floor finally spurred him to action.

He fired again, two shots into the thing's decaying, upturned face. Dark holes opened up in its knobby skull, sending tiny rivers of fluid and fleshy tissue through its lower jaw. With a heavy sigh, the rotting thing settled to the floor in a spreading red lake. Chris didn't want to make any bets on it staying down. He gave one more futile yank on the door and then stepped carefully past the body, moving down the corridor. He rattled the handle of a door on his left, but it was locked. There was a tiny eching in the key plate, what looked like a sword; he filed that bit of information into his confused, whirling thoughts and continued on, gripping the Beretta tightly.

There was an offshoot to his right with a single door, but he ignored it, wanting to find a way to circle back to the front hall. The others must have heard the shots, but he had to assume that there were more creatures running around here like the one he'd killed. The rest of the team might already have their hands full.

There was a door at the end of the hall on his left, where the corridor turned. Chris hurried toward it, the putrid scent of the creature, the zombie - call it what it is - making him want to gag. As he neared the door, the realized that the smell was actually getting worse, in testifying with each step.

He heard the soft, hungry moan as his hand touched the knob, even as it registered that he only had two bullets left in his clip. In the shadows to his right, movement.

Gotta reload, get somewhere safe.

Chris jerked the door open and stepped into the arms of the shambling creature that waited on the other side, its peeling fingers gasping at him as it lunged for his throat.

* * *

Three shots. Seconds later, two more, the sounds distant but distinct in the palatial lobby.

_Chris!  
_

_"Jill, why don't you..." _Wesker started, but Barry didn't let him finish.

_"I'm going, too," _he said, already starting for the door on the east wall. Chris wouldn't waste shots like that unless he had to; he needed help.

Wesker relented quickly, nodding. _"Go. I'll wait here."_

Barry opened the door, Jill right behind. They walked into a huge dining room, not as wide as the front hall but at least as long. There was another door at the opposite end, past a grandfather clock that ticked loudly in the frigid, dusty air.

Barry jogged toward it, revolver in his hand, feeling tense and worried._ Christ, what a balls-up this operations was! _S.T.A.R.S. teams were often sent into risky situations where the circumstances were unusual, but this was the first time since he'd been a rookie that Barry felt like things had gone totally out of control. Joseph was dead, Chicken heart Vickers had left them to be eaten by dogs from hell, and now Chris was in trouble. Wesker shouldn't of sent him alone.

Jill reached the door first, touching the handle with slim fingers and looking to him. Barry nodded and she pushed it open, going in low and left. Barry took the other side, both of them sweeping an empty corridor.

_"Chris?" _Jill called out quietly, but there was no answer. Barry scowled, sniffing the air; something smelled like rotting fruit.

_"I'll check the doors," _Barry said. Jill nodded and edges to the left, alert and confused.

Barry moved toward the first door, feeling good that Jill was at his back. He'd thought she was kind of bitchy when she'd first transferred, but she was proving to be a brighty and capable solider, a welcome addition to the Alpha's.

Jill let out a high-pitched gasp of suprise and Barry spun, the scent of decay suddenly thick in the narrow hall.

Jill was backing away from an opening at the end of the corridor, her weapon trained on something Barry couldn't see.

_"Stop!" _her voice was high and shaky, her expression horrified and fired, once, twice, still backing toward Barry, her breathing fast and shallow.

_"Get clear, left!" _He raised the Colt as she moved out of the way, as a small man stepped into view. The figure's arms were stretched out like a sleepwalker's, the hands frail and grasping.

Barry saw the creature's face then and didn't hesitate. He fired, a .357 round peeling the top of its ashen skull away in an explosive burst, blood coursing down its strange, terrible features and staining the cataracts of its pale, rolling eyes.

It pitched back, sprawling face-up at Jill's feet.

Barry hurried to her side, stunned.

_"What..." _he started, then saw what was on the carpet in front of them, laying in the small sitting area that marked the end of the corridor.

For a moment, Barry thought it was Chris, until he saw the S.T.A.R.S. Bravo insignia on the vest, and felt a different kind of horror set in as he struggled to realize the features. The Bravo had been decapitated, the head laying a foot away from the corpse, the face completely covered in gore.

Oh jeez, It's Ken.

Kenneth Sullivan, one of the best field scouts Barry had ever known and a hell of a nice guy. There was a gaping, ragged wound in his chest, chunks of partly eaten tissue and gut strewn around the bloody hole. His left hand was missing, and there was no weapon nearby; it must have been his gun that Joseph had found out in the woods.

Barry looked away, sickened. Ken had been a quiet, descent sort, did a lot of work in chemistry. He'd had a teenaged-son who lived with his ex in California. Barry thought of his own girls at home, Moira and Pauly, and felt a urge of helpless fear for them. He wasn't afraid of death, but the thought of them growing up without a father.

Jill dropped into a couch next to his ravaged body and rifled quickly through the belt pack. She shot an apologetic look at Barry, but he gave her a slight nod. They needed the ammo; Ken certainly didn't. She came up with two clips for a nine-millimeter and tucked them into her hip pocket. Barry turned and stared down at Ken's murderer in disgust and wonder.

He had no doubt that he was looking at one of the cannibal killers that had been preying upon Raccoon City. It had a crusty scum of red around its mouth and and gore-encrusted nails, as well as a ragged shirt that was stiff with dried blood. What was weird was how dead it looked.

Barry had once done a covert hostage rescue in Ecuador, where a group of farmers had been held for weeks by a band of insane guerrilla rebels. Several of the hostages have been killed early in the siege, and after the S.T.A.R.S. managed to capture the rebels, Barry had gone with one of the survivors to record the deaths. The four victims have been shot, their bodies dumped behind the small wooden shack that the rebels had taken over. After three weeks in the South American sun, the skin on their faces had shriveled, the cracking, lined flesh pulling away from sinew and bone. He still remembered those faces clearly, and saw them again now as he looked down at the fallen creature. It wore the face of death.

Besides which, it smells like a slaughterhouse on a hot day. Somebody forgot to tell this guy that dead people don't walk around.

He could see the same sickened confusion on Jill's face, the same question in her eyes, but for now, there weren't any answers; they had to find Chris and regroup.

Together, they moved back down the corridor and checked all three doors, rattling handles and pushing at the heavy wood frames. All were securely locked. But Chris had to have gone through one of them, there's no where else he could have gone.

It didn't make sense, and short of breaking the doors down, there was nothing they could do about it.

_"We should report this to Wesker," _Jill said, and Barry nodded agreement. If they stumbled into the hiding place of the killers, they were going to need a plan of attack.

They ran back through the dining room, the stale air of relief after the corridor's reek of blood and decay. They reached the door back to the main hall and hurried through, Barry wondering what the captain would make of all this. It was downright. Barry stopped short, searching the elegent, empty hall and feeling like the butt of some practical joke that simply wasn't funny.

Wesker was gone.


End file.
